


Advances

by hamildooodles



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamildooodles/pseuds/hamildooodles
Summary: A quick Lams one-shot.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Kudos: 17





	Advances

It’s late at night when I first recognize it. The novel, unprecedented feeling strikes me again, strange and thrilling. I squirm in my seat, wondering if there might be a way to turn it off. It’s not the time, I think. But is it ever the time?

Alexander sits across the room, blissfully unaware of the raw change in me. Only us in the office, it’s late in the evening. I should be tired. I glance up, but Alexander remains focused on his writing. So should I, I know. But the distraction suffocates all concentration. I sit here useless. 

Rarely do I feel this way anymore. I try not to. Actually I was taught not to. My father told me the feelings I have are morally wrong, yet he never knew the extent of how sinful they are.

But Alexander…he brings this side of me out, against the best of my control. I watch him now. Hair falls loose around his face, eyes focused, lips parted softly. He loosened his cravat nearly an hour ago when everyone left the office to retire for the night. The small area of bare skin begs to be touched, begs to grow in surface area as the clothes shrink. 

I spread my legs out to create additional room for the unexpected rise of tension that occurs between. I groan a bit when I let my head fall backward. Alexander looks up at me, and I toss my hands above my head to pass the noise off as a stretch. He smiles softly in return as my heart beats quickly, surely audible outside my chest. 

I don’t know how to tell him. How to express the way I want him. When he does the same to me, it’s always perfect, only wrong if it be at an inconvenient time. But I lack the grace, the sensibility, to be more forward with him. It took me too long to come around, and if I show my desires now, I fear he’ll have much to say about my character for it. 

It was almost easier, in a way, with Francis. Perhaps my youth was to blame, a teenager full of fire. I recall grabbing his lapels and taking him with forceful lust, the same way he would take me. It was just expected that way when the feeling overtook one of us, and we each became cruelly submissive to the other. But that was the pattern, and I like to believe I enjoyed it in the heat of the moment. I don’t want to believe otherwise. I cannot admit if I was forced into it; it’s not worth the mental turmoil to rethink his actions of so long ago. 

I cannot act this way with Alexander, even when the passion is so strong. I hold back although I want to lunge at him, strip him bare right here in this office in the dim candlelight. I crave to hear him moan my name, more sensual than Francis’s voice ever could carve such a pitch. But I cannot. I will not. It is ungentlemanly. The irony is, all of these thoughts, all of the actions of the past and present are the most ungentlemanly of all. But I’m past my past, aren’t I?

The truth is, Alexander would die for me to touch him so raw and rough and passionately. Anytime we find ourselves lost in the moment, he’ll pull my hands where he wants, usually in some place that scares me a bit to perform, around his neck or tight in his hair. And he loves it. And of course I comply; I perhaps love it as much as he. But it’s impossible to initiate myself. It’s hard enough for me to start off the act at all. 

The hypocrisy holds me back. He wouldn’t be caught a dead man touching me anything but gingerly. Tender, loving, soothing, like he kisses all the scars I do not acknowledge. Scars from Francis, who never dreamed of touching a man tenderly. Only hot and rough passion filled him. Yet Alexander manages both, a gentle and heated passion. A trance that requires me to experience every emotion God has blessed humankind with. I don’t know how he combines the two, a blend of perfection that sends me over the physical and emotional edge —the proverbial edge as far as I’m concerned— far too quickly every time his hands trace my skin. Never have I wanted the pleasure to end sooner, but it comes and goes so swift and quick, climaxing on him, in him, anywhere with his beautiful body wrapped around me in some beautiful way. Forget about requesting the roughness back on me; I’m far too shy, far too timid to let him see that side of me. Maybe I’m afraid that he’ll be even better, get me off even quicker than he can with his gentle caresses.

So I’m dominant, but never aggressive and rough like he wishes. I wonder if I let him down sometimes. But it scares me if I’m being honest. I fear Alexander and I becoming something more toxic, constantly rough, and only lust-filled, like I fell victim to in the past. 

I decided, and it has served me well thus far, to not act on it at all. The only side effect is frustration, repressive feelings, a tightness between my legs that keeps me squirming for a bit until I can sufficiently distract myself enough. Tonight feels strangely harder to control, but I must manage. Surely I will, I always do. My self-control is a force to be reckoned with. I sit here, eyes glazed over the papers in front of me, bouncing my legs hoping for dutiful distraction to win. But the sole fixation is on long red hair that frames a handsome face. I am completely besotted with him, no matter how hard I fidget. 

“Laurens?”

I immediately halt the unconscious rapping of my fingers on the table and squeeze my bouncing legs together. I stare at him apologetically before jumping to my feet like a call to action, letting the legs of my chair scratch back against the wood floor in a rush. I pull the flaps of my coat snugly against the front of me, hiding any evidence of my inappropriate desires. I scurry out the door for an excuse to get some air, only hearing a hushed “Laur…?” behind me. 

After a few rushed breaths, I manage to control them again. I maintain a steadier physical appearance, reaching into the flap of my breeches to make a necessary adjustment. I am stronger than this temptation, I tell myself. 

When I return, I place a cup of tea in front of him instead, grazing my fingers against his knuckles if only for a subtle touch. I try to convince myself that it’s all I need. I sit back across from him, head down to my lap. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, drawing my head up to his candlelit face. I smile politely and drop my head, keeping my legs still, as not to shake the table and disturb him further. 

“You alright dear?”

“I–I’m sorry,” I stutter, still withholding eye contact. 

“John…”

He calls me by my first name, reaching across the table to touch the back of my hand. My eyes meet his softly. “Alexander…I…I…”

“What is it?”

I could say a million lies, a million ways to save myself and my dignity. Preserve my strong reputation of self-control and highest level of righteousness of man. It certainly wouldn’t be easier on my mind to give into the temptation of the flesh. But I swear to God, “Alex I need you.”

His eyes widen, and we’re both surprised when I push my chair out again. I lick my fingertips before pressing out the flame of one of the candles, casting the room in a significantly dimmer atmosphere. I straddle his lap in his chair without further a thought, without another moment wasted inside the brutal wreckage of my mind. I can tell he feels my arousal immediately when he lets out a quiet gasp. I throw away the controlled breaths I’d worked so hard for, and I kiss him: deep, slow, passionate, because he tastes exactly like everything I’ve wanted. I find quiet moans flowing from my mouth to his, and I can tell my confidence in my advances turns him on all the more. We both know it’s unlike me to cave into carnal pleasures, and I hope Alex isn’t deterred, but rather proud maybe, for being bold enough to initiate my desires. It’s not long before I feel the same growth under me, a result of deep kissing on curved lips and fingering through curled hair. 

“Let’s go home, dear boy,” he says, breathy as he steals a bite on my earlobe. 

“I don’t think I can wait that long, Alex.” 

There’s something like a whine that escapes his throat and he lunges into me, kissing me with the matched passion I’d given him first. I tug lightly on his hair, forcing him to arch his head back as I place kisses and bites along the sides of his neck. “Yes…please, please don’t hold back John, please baby.”

I take in a shaky breath, tugging his coat off a bit more roughly than usual. The moans I draw from his face, scrunched up with pleasure, keep me moving forward. Wrapping one arm around him, I toss his coat on the floor with the other. I then scoop him up, planting kisses wherever there is available skin to reach. Impatient, I leave a trail of hickeys where his cravat has been long gone, the soft freckled skin teasing me for the last hour or more. I cannot help but pop his buttons open to continue my trail south. 

“Johnnn…”

“My love. Say my name againnn…” My heart pounds as I don’t recognize my own voice, which nearly sounds like an animalistic growl. 

“Mmmmm John. Take me, I need you Colonel Laurens.”

I smile into his chest between kisses. “Colonel Laurens, huh? You rank me above you, Lieutenant?” 

“Yes sir, please sir. Please Colonel.”

The way he calls me ‘sir’ causes a physical chain of reactions in which I grind my pelvis against his, making him excitedly giggle. I laugh into him in return, kissing him passionately back on the lips, mutual smiles getting in the way of deeper kisses. 

He wraps his legs around my waist and I stand up, him tight in my arms. I carry him with me to the door, locking it quietly while he tries to pull my shirt off. “Easy dear boy, you’re almost as impatient as I,” I whisper in his ear, which draws a whiny laugh. I lay him down on the coats, sliding a hand under and behind his head while I press my body onto his from the top. 

“You still surprise me, Colonel,” he says, pausing his eager fingers briefly to stroke the side of my cheek. I lean into his touch, closing my eyes, and hum in question, even though I am thoroughly keen to his meaning. I just want to hear more from his lips. “I like it when you crave me, to satisfy your needs,” he says quietly, kissing my cheeks and lips lightly. 

“May you forgive me if I was too forward or aggressive in my pursuit of you,” I whisper back, opening my eyes, needing his confirmation. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted from you, and only you,” he says, putting the world on pause and holding my face firm.

“Only you.”

And we move over each other until the heat of true love’s physical representation is warmer than the heat of two bare bodies touching.


End file.
